


To Be Free

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Control, Gen, Hostile, Speeches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“… what greater thing is there?” Combeferre's thoughts during the memorable "smackdown"</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Free

“A Bonapartist democrat, you say?”

“That was what he said, yes.”

“Can such a person truly exist?”

“You’ve met him, have you not? Simply do what you do best and assess.”

Courfeyrac need not have said so. It was in Combeferre’s nature to be intrigued, and he was deeply so by this Bonapartist claiming to be a democrat. He had heard of Courfeyrac taking in a student in need, of the fellow’s uncanny ability to absorb languages, and his reservation on the floor of the Musain. Combeferre had engaged him once, twice even, in an attempt to gauge his thoughts on their initiative, but the man remained aloof.

“And who knows!” Courfeyrac bellowed, gesturing his hand with a flourish. “Despite his grey leanings, Marius is a virgin still. We may make a republican of him yet.”

Marius Pontmercy would never be a republican.

Combeferre would have asked for Courfeyrac’s reasons for thinking otherwise, but he was sure that the ability to deliver a rapturous speech on Bonaparte was not one of them.

“Corsica. A little island which has made France truly great.”

Had someone asked Combeferre, he would have told them that the map was highly at fault. Prouvaire had wanted to retain it, and out of an impractical sentimentality, they had put it up, a symbol of the magnificence that was ‘89, as if an illustration of roads and rivers could invoke the spirits of men that were. Combeferre chose to humor it, but had he known that an outdated map could inspire impassioned declamations from Pontmercy, he would have torn it down. 

It was not that he did not approve of outbursts of the soul; Enjolras was prone to it himself, but Marius Pontmercy’s passions would have been better received with another audience.

“… to be the empire of such an emperor, what a splendid destiny for a people, when that people is France, and when it adds its genius to the genius of such a man!”

At the peripheral of his vision, Combeferre saw Bossuet pause from their backgammon. It was a grave thing indeed to have distracted their eagle from his games. He saw him give a silent nudge to Joly, who inclined his head and whispered something in a derisive tone. They shared a snicker.

The others were not so accommodating. A silence had begun to infiltrate the room, a silence dripping not with awe or bewilderment, but with hostility. The Friends of the ABC thrived in a whirl of wits and whims, but it was also made up of students in the prime of life, students who, though they would happily engage in lively debate, did not suffer insults. The lawyer Mathieu rose from his chair, his ominous form casting a large shadow across the wooden floor. On the counter, the poet Boniface remained hunched, his cup of coffee making a dismal clink as he laid it on the table.

All hands to work; all arms braced.

Marius Pontmercy would be eaten alive.

Combeferre did not have time to recognize the emotion that had made him shudder. Had it been dread, disgust, or pity? His eyes found Courfeyrac’s, whose expression he suspected mirrored his own. Courfeyrac made a small nod, and he turned to Enjolras, who did the same.

All springs coiled; all consent given. Best to be silenced by a man than a mob.

“… what greater thing is there?”

_“Être libre.”_

The words were a splash of water to the face. Pontmercy stood baffled, the words seeming to have escaped from under him. Seeing him so unhinged, the odious tension that had been infecting the room dissipated. One by one, fists unclenched, and the sour haze retreated from their eyes.

Combeferre released the breath he had been holding. With grave finality, he stood, paused to grab a forgotten book, and started for the door. He met Courfeyrac’s eye along the way, and together they silently beckoned every man to the next room. Courfeyrac gripped his hand in fleeting, and with a last look to Enjolras, they begged pardon to leave. He gave them a grateful nod, and in solemn stride, turned to salvage what he could from their new member.

“ _Pardieu!_ That couldn’t be more funereal!” Courefyrac cried when they had gone safely. “What say you to a bit of a song?”

Combeferre let out a sigh and surveyed the grim faces. He knew that Courfeyrac was right. He also knew that Marius Pontmercy would never come back to the Musain again. A pity, for he would have liked to know his thoughts on the German language.

_“Si Cesar m’avait donne…”_


End file.
